Reality
by aeronq
Summary: Based on 'Back to Reality'. Angst (and most of the humour) to be added. enjoy.
1. Introductions

Dedicated to anyone who cares to read it but as always, with my Carrie in mind. This is for you as is everything I create.  
  
While watching Back to Reality I couldn't help but feel incredibly curious about the characters that the crew become. Why is Billy so different from Sebastian if they have the same upbringing? Why is Jake Bullet half- mechanical if he's just a traffic cop? Why the hell are they there in the first place? Critics may say 'it's a hallucination, it doesn't have to make sense' Well I'm curious damnit.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Well nothing valuable. Or interesting. Or worth stealing. Except Carrie. In an non-chauvinistic way (I think..)  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
The universe we live in is based on choices. Every little thing we do changes the universe around us. Sometimes it only makes the difference between indifference and embarrassment when we try to choose the direction a stranger will go when you almost collide when walking down the street. Other times it can be the difference between whether the world is overrun in the future by giant super flies or by pandimensional space ants when we can choose to be merciful before smashing our rolled newspaper into the small flying, disease carrier that won't leave our morning toast alone. Theoretically, each decision that anything makes ever creates an alternate reality in which the alternatives happen. If a particle decides that left is a great idea then every other conceivable direction is tried out in alternate realities. In this way anything that can conceivably happen ever anywhere in an infinite universe will play out in an alternate infinite universe. Making infinity seem like peanuts compared to the absolutely immense amounts of universes there are. Oodles and oodles of them in fact.  
  
In a particular reality in a certain section of space lies an S3 class planet that a certain immense mining freighter is supposed to be orbiting about. Millions of years before a coalition of people from a planet called Earth decided that the universe was something that could be played around with and entire systems of planets could be made suitable for habitation by. basically whatever they felt like putting there. A suitable planetoid was chosen in this certain section of space, capable of supporting an atmosphere and with a gravitational field that man could one day occupy without floating off into the freezing vacuum of space or driven into his boots, a pulpy mush of his own vital fluids, before he could say 'Smeg its hard walking here.' With huge amounts of the right chemicals on board, seeding ships were duly sent out with the sole purpose of compressing billions of years of planetary evolution into a matter of months. This completed more ships were dispatched to do the all important task of making interesting plants and animals so that the humans on the planet could do interesting and occasionally amusing things to them all in the name of being the master race.  
  
As is often the downfall of immensely proud and often male people, they like doing things fast. And sloppily. And think they're doing it right. This is why the despair squid was born.  
  
A gargantuan behemoth of a huge smegger of a fish, the despair squid defends itself by secreting a hallucinogenic inky toxin that causes visions within the victim, making them see something so horrific that they are driven to suicide. Thus it wipes out predators and prey alike, making a supposedly habitable planet desolate within a matter of years. The seeding ship had no chance.  
  
The last of the species of monkeys that had discovered that fire was actually pretty cool, a dead man's personality digitally projected as tachyons to make a physical form, a sanitary robot who had cracked his programming enough to lie and cheat and yet still followed the ideals of the mechanoid bible as copyrighted by Panasonic and an incredibly cool humanoid descended from cats were all victims to this hallucinogenic. Each saw themselves as something they would never want to be, everything their minds unconsciously abhorred with the universe manifested as themselves. Yet in an alternate reality, every possibility is played out.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
Jake flipped the holowhip's control to 'stun' as he crouched behind a wall. The flickering streetlight cast a constantly changing light that made seeing difficult, night vision went as soon as it started to form. Switching his vision to heat-seeking mode he peered around the corner.  
  
Yellow steam rose from various vents in the street and into the night air. A rodent scurried across the alley, green and reds swirled within it as it left faint yellowish footprints that disappeared within seconds. And then he found what he was looking for. A yellowish dot weaving amongst the vents about 4 feet up.  
  
Switching to night vision he saw the frightened face of the blonde young man with the metallic 'H' on his forehead before the light flicked on again. Jake drew his badge and stepped around the corner, the holowhip raised threateningly.  
  
'Bullet, Cybernautics. Halt and Desist before I am forced to take action'  
  
The man turned and fled. Jake cursed as he sprinted off in his wake, hating the way his heart ached from the running he had already had to do. From behind him an immaculately neat man in a trenchcoat raced past him, not even breaking a sweat. In retrospect that made sense but at the time all he could do was do what he could to keep up.  
  
The thing about holograms is they made no damn noise. He almost stepped through the man's downed form, barely stopping before treading through Eddie who was wrapped around his legs. Jake nodded to him and watched him shrug as much as it was possible to whilst holding an enemy of democracy by the knees.  
  
The pinkish glow of the holowhip lit up the terrified face of the blonde man, his eyes locked on its sinuous form. Jake nodded to Eddie who hauled the criminal to his feet. The holowhip started to whine as it turned from pink to orange. Eddie had to struggle to keep hold of the trashing hologram.  
  
"Isaac Francis Johnston, you are hereby charged with hologrammatic larceny, obstruction of justice and treason against the state. Your trial begins now."  
  
Jake took a cigarette from a battered silver case in his inside trenchcoat pocket and lit up, taking a satisfying lungfull of carcinogenic smoke. Isaac's eyes flittered between Eddie's exasperated expression and Jake's satisfied look.  
  
"You have been found guilty and by the power invested in me by the People's Department of Cybernautics I sentence you to death."  
  
Isaac started trashing again, almost breaking free of Eddie's grasp. Realising how close he was to escaping, Eddie brought his knee up sharply between his legs. Isaac fell to his knees, his eyes tearing from the pain and shock. Jake motioned Eddie to step back and raised the whip. Isaac raised his tear streaked face. The surface of his hazel eyes shimmered in the half light as he blubbered incoherently. Jake shook his head and snapped the whip down.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
The static buzz of the vid screen dug into Billy's ears and corkscrewed in his head. With a growl he threw the nearest thing he had to hand at the off button. The resounding crack made him smile slightly as the boot connected with the panel and silenced the grating sound.  
  
He was lying on a sofa, of sorts. The leather had split in a few places, spilling fluffy sofa guts onto the floor. The black was more of a grey now, its surface ridden with cracks and areas of wear. One leg was propped up with a pile of old magazines and the springs groaned when the wind changed direction. It housed a small colony of various animals, mostly invertebrates but Billy knew there was a smallish rat at the back because it bit him when he was looking for change once.  
  
The room around him was in complete disarray. Like a horrific plane accident. Debris was everywhere, ready meal containers, bits of electronic equipment, sandwich remains, grit, nails, semtex. Books were piled along with infodiscs next to a bed as chewed up as the sofa. The bed itself was littered with wires and more plastique brands than the Avon lady has cosmetics.  
  
Billy himself was thin, almost malnourished. His wiry hair was long and severe blonde, bordering on white. He wore only a pair of battered jeans, his bare chest covered in the grime of oil and scent of gunpowder. The flat was cold, goosepimples were all over his body. The nights of no sleep had aged him; dark circles hung heavily under his eyes. His hands gripped the sofa, his long and dextrous fingers pressing into the leather as the insomnia of the driven afflicted him and he shook the shiver of the damned cold.  
  
He stood with much grunting and creaking and picked his way between the debris. Reaching under the bed he heaved out a large wooden trunk, WJD emblazoned across the lid in golden lettering. Flipping open the catch he yanked it open and pulled out a shirt. Pulling it over his head he was going to close the lid when he felt something digging into his back. Pulling off the shirt whatever it was fell to the floor, landing face down. Flipping the photograph over with a toe he was greeted by his own grinning face in his CGI uniform standing before the flag of the state and accepting an award from a very tall, smiley old man in an officer's uniform.  
  
It reminded him of Sebastian. His standing there and being so proud as an ageing relic in a revolution long past from the memories of mankind gave him something shiny for crushing the spirits of the revolutionaries. He almost felt sorry for him.  
  
He picked his way carefully over to the barred window he had overlooking the street. The bustle of the masses rose up to greet him, moving about ferociously even at 4 in the morning. He thought back on the infodiscs he had on the Roman Empire, millennia ago thousands of slaves were controlled by the empire. There were only a few revolutions in the centuries they were in power. He used to always wonder why. Why not more? This state was achieved by rebellion; the overthrowing of the 'evil' capitalists was well documented even in the controlled state run education. Why didn't people just realise these people were evil, that there needed to be something new?  
  
The slaves of the Empire had been born into slavery. The children of slaves were slaves. Those captured in war were slaves. They had no rights, no possessions and no protection. The only thing that stopped them all being killed by their owners was etiquette. Those people out the window were born into slavery. They would die under it. Unless they were knew of freedom. They needed to be shown.  
  
He turned away and stumbled to his bed where only wires and semtex would greet him.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
It was another day at university. The lecture rooms were sparsely populated at quarter to nine so he had found his habitual place at the front incredibly simply. Rushing down the steps to get to it before any body else had the chance, he sat down on the wooden chair, grinning with self- satisfaction. Reaching into his bag he pulled out his pencil case. Opening it he took out 2 HB pencils, sharpened to points so precise they were capable of performing keyhole surgery. Beside them were 2 black ballpoints, 2 blue ballpoints, 2 red ballpoints for corrections, 2 green ballpoints, a thick interchangeable biro that let you choose up to 4 colours (black, blue, red and green), a yellow, green and orange highlighter, 2 rubbers and a pencil sharpener that had a little box for catching the shavings with extra blades. He was mildly concerned that he should have brought his other highlighter but then remembered it was because it was pink and then maybe the girls would think he was gay.  
  
He snorted, a quick suppressed laughter through his cavernous nostrils at that thought. He hid his immense grin behind his hand as he silently chuckled.  
  
'Hey Dibley, don't even bother trying to hide those teeth of yours. I can see them from behind your head.'  
  
He hurriedly dropped his hands to rummaging through his bag, pulling out the last session's notes that he previously read through and highlighted the key points of. His face burned with embarrassment as Malcolm up in the middle row called down on him. And after he had lent him those notes on advanced integration.  
  
His face was still redish as the lecturer made his way to the podium and began speaking. Dwayne though wasn't listening. His mind had started drifting again. Closing his eyes, he tried to gain some measure of composure.  
  
Her smile burned him, his soul wrenched as she seemed so happy at what was beyond him, her gaze locked on another. Her eyes, twin pools of excruciating depth set in green twinkled with joy. Her soft lips parted slightly as if to.  
  
He opened his eyes and breathed. The room around him ignored his presence much as always as the lecturer droned on.  
  
What was wrong with him? He tried to tune into what the man was saying, to hear the words within the sounds but it was no use. He tried recalling what it was supposed to be about but no dice. He couldn't concentrate. The words on the page mixed and melded, becoming the squiggles they actually were. Flicking through them he tried to make sense of something.  
  
In the margin on one of the pages he had written the night before was something that made everything snap into focus. Two words that he could see. Words that could make him happy. Words that could make him everything he wanted to be.  
  
He smiled, not caring who was dazzled or horrified by the revelation of his gargantuan overbite and doodled on a fresh sheet of paper. 


	2. Explainations

But like the present, the past has a myriad of different routes. What is true, changes with interpretation. Millennia ago, man believed the earth was the universe; that it was flat and surrounded by a sphere of twinkly aesthetically pleasing thingys. In the last few decades, man thought light was something that made sense and that 'Quantum' was just a word that sounded rather cool.  
  
History is written by the winners. The losers of battles wouldn't scribe down how awful logistical management and bad weather along with the unlucky loss of one of their finest commanders caused the defeat that caused their capture. They were usually captured, horribly mangled with hot, sharp and dirty metal thingys and executed with a great amount of pizazz and gore. History was then written by the winners, some rambling scribbles, after hurriedly wiping the blood off their hands with a piece of loser's cloak, about how the decadent evil nature of the loser's regime was their downfall and damnation. This is sometimes known as the Oates and Scott hypothesis.  
  
There is also the nature of historians themselves. They're short-sighted, socially inept and, like so many socially inept people, are fascinated by fire.  
  
Through this myriad jumble of varied interpretation and just plain smegging up of history emerges the story of how the Earth we know and love came to become a place of oppression and darkness.  
  
Lots of relevant information was lost. Careful tinkering about with various sources reveals that at some point in Earth's past everyone was marginally happy. Technology flourished, people were content and famine was a thing of the past. Everything was tickety boo.  
  
What happens next was attributed to many things among them a catastrophic theological war, an act of a God people no longer believed in, bad management, revolutions in various nations, a 'revelation' of the way that man should live and giant space ants. Whatever the reason, everything smegged up on a God almighty scale. Economies shattered, power failed across vast landscapes of cities, plunging whole nations into darkness. Anarchy erupted, weapons lying unused for decades were taken up again and the world was torn apart in a completely non-literal yet apocalyptic sense.  
  
Into this scene of disorder factions of people grouped together to claw an existence from out of the ashes of their shattered world. Brutal regimes run by whoever had a supply of weaponry, electrical power or food sprouted overnight like fungi. These factions fought and allied with one another for mastery. These clans eked out an existence amongst the lifeless hulks of once proud cities, running battles occurred in the streets between the groups. Life was cheap, death cheaper.  
  
This vast vacuum of power caused many nations to rise up from clan alliances. Telepaths created before what was becoming known as 'The Time of Madness' became hugely influential. Even those with meagre abilities were hailed as some of the most important people on the planet. With their ability to understand people from the inside outwards a few acted as diplomats and brought the clans together. Over time it became enough and in a few areas relative peace prevailed.  
  
From this shaky start civilisation took its first few wobbly steps after its resurrection. Society developed once more, the clans grouping their ideals together under the umbrella of union. It took time for the ties of intermarriage and the breakdown of stereotypes to work their curious charm on integration and assimilation but charm they did and the unions forged strong.  
  
An early problem that had to be addressed was that of the balance of power. Of course, clan leaders pleaded their cases to the diplomats of their rivals who passed the message on to other clans, all in an effort to seal an alliance against the other unifying clans. (Nobody seemed to question why an alliance against these clans was necessary; this is easily answered by 'because they were there, the foreign bastards') This created an interesting dilemma in the middle of negotiations when all the clan leaders found themselves being convinced to sign strange proclamations and then allowing themselves to be led unarmed into rooms full of angry men with knives.  
  
The hills rang with the news, the leaders had decided that power was too much for the likes of them. They had decided to retire to humble lives to lead lives of contemplation and hand over their territories to their advisors. The council of these reverend Telepaths were to hold a parliament to decide on whom was fit to take control of the nation. Elected individuals put into power by the voters would do the basic running of state. The candidates would have to be worthy of guiding so many and having so much responsibility. They would have to be selected carefully. The parliament would therefore select candidates to be in power, of course.  
  
This is how The Council was formed. Lost to the general public was the very concept of why they were in power. They just always have been. Numbering 8 members, each represented an ancient and long dead clan. Each one the descendant of the original diplomats, their telepathic abilities kept in the gene-pool by a great deal of breeding with other council members and from the tracking down of new Telepaths. Naturally as with any hereditary system of government, there were genetic flaws in the families. Haemophilia, weakness, susceptibility to Parkinson's, large ears. The strength of their Telepathic powers however was something that no one could guess at.  
  
This is the world of now. Carved from the collapse of world order, a nation hacked out from the husks of long dead cities. The nation in which our heroes now live.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
The severed brown lump made an almost inaudible thump as it landed in the crystal ashtray. The silver cutting device was placed neatly beside it, its surface polished in the way that brass in old cathedrals is polished, marred by time and yet with a subtle gleam.  
  
A light flickered, the small flame lighting up the bottom half of a man's face. A jaw that fate had treated kindly. A nice jaw; well rounded like a child's and with the structure of a man's. The light flicked out, replaced by the angry red of burning tobacco. Smoke curled around the dimly lit face, suddenly giving it a feeling not similar to nice. In fact, a lot similar to not nice.  
  
The small man opposite cringed under the gaze of the man shrouded in darkness and started to scrunch up the small hat in his hands even more. He almost folded in on himself when the man spoke.  
  
'Tell me voter, what information do you regard so important that you would not speak of it to any of my subordinates?'  
  
The small man shivered under the voice, the steel in it almost imperceptible, like a velvet wrapped blade. He stayed silent, his chest trying to lower into his stomach with his head still upright so that his eyes could be lowered submissively and still watch for any 'kill him' signals.  
  
'You must understand that I'm slightly puzzled as to why you are here at all. My guard usually batters anyone into submission who they don't execute on sight that manage to come anywhere near my office unless they have been given clearance so I assume someone allowed you to see me. You are one of the elected. Tell me now, what troubles do you bring now to my door?'  
  
The tiny man now did drop his view towards the floor and even let out a small whimper, a slight tearing noise emanating from his hat as his fingers clutched rigidly on its frail material. The words spilled from his mouth unchecked and accelerating.  
  
'Please Voter Colonel, I wish only to serve democracy. Rumours tell of your benevolence and grace and now I rightly see the truthofsuchanillustriou..'  
  
The Voter Colonel raised a hand stopping the speech in mid flow. A strange gurgling noise of abruptly halted speech came from the cringing form before him.  
  
'I don't have time for your vast oratory, voter. What do you have to tell me?'  
  
Licking his lips in apprehension the small man cracked. He quickly choked back a short sob before his quavering voice began to ramble,  
  
'Voter Colonel, I have reason to believe that my daughter is an enemy to democracy. I came to you in order for her to be brought to justice of course, there was no doubt of whether I would do that, I am loyal and the very thought of not bringing those guilty to justice is undermining that.'  
  
The Voter Colonel rotated his hand while looking directly at the object before him, the universal sign to hurry the hell up. The small man yelped, looking very quickly out of the corners of his eyes and straining as many spare senses as he could struggle under control to try and predict the approach of huge, leather clad guards.  
  
'I want you to treat her well.'  
  
The silence next was audible. Not in the way of exam silence that is the scratching of pens and the click of invigilator's heels or the silence of the forest, the creeping sound of growth as a hundred leaves unfurl and the bark of trees tighten. This was proper silence, the silence of the incredibly terrified and the incredibly scary coming together. The kind of silence that usually ends in a furry squelch.  
  
'That is quite a request.'  
  
This is a common tactic of those in power, stating the blindingly obvious. It intimidates the opposition. They become afraid that you're trying to seem stupid in order to fool them.  
  
'Voter Colonel, enemies of democracy are to be crushed under the heel of the forces of justice, darkness cannot be allowed to thrive, the problems within must be removed like the cancer they are. but can you not give her some degree of mercy? A jail sentence perhaps? A slight maiming before letting her go back into the world?'  
  
The last words were barely a whisper. The attempted 'winning grin' was attached loosely to the face at best, it had no chance of surviving the Voter Colonel's stare.  
  
It tried. It lasted about 4 seconds. Surprisingly long considering the circumstances.  
  
'Do you do know what the penalty for attempting to influence the course of justice is, voter?'  
  
The small man quaked. His body shook visibly, forceful enough to start the clatter of enamel against enamel. He had the look of a man who knows the true meaning of 'brown trousers time'  
  
The Voter Colonel stubbed out the cigar in the crystal ashtray next to it's severed tip, darkness surrounding him once more. The small man continued to shake and mutter inaudible pleading noises.  
  
The multiple squeal of leather boots on institution flooring made the muttering stop. Heavy squeals filled the corridor, spiralling into the room and grabbing the lower brain of the small man. He did the only sane thing he could think of.  
  
He went on his knees before the Voter Colonel and begged for forgiveness. His rapid speech was almost drowned by the sound of boots and the rustle of purposeful trousers. In the dark he wept as he begged, the tears burning against his face red with shame and the pounding of his heart filling his head.  
  
The ring of cold steel against the back of his head silenced his pleas. He never even thought of resisting as he was dragged onto the balcony and his upper body forced over the rail. He opened his eyes for the last time as he looked over the Colonel's garden. His last thought was of wondering who did all the weeding. Then nothing as the trigger was pulled and the back of his head blasted through his brain, forced by a few grams of incredibly fast lead.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
He looked down as his fingers flexed. It still fascinated him. You would have thought that 3 million years of human evolution would breed familiarity; 'oh, it's my hand. Cool.' Jake still looked at his fingers in fascination.  
  
He turned his hand over in the dim light of 'his' flat. His fist was even more amazing, the way it curled, the skin fitting snug even when it wasn't clenched. The veins in his hands were a shade of blue. Or was it green? He had spilt enough blood to know how it faded from the pinkish red to the light purpley crimson. Never bluey green.  
  
A yellow wire just below the skin ran along the length of his arm. They were all over his body really, standing naked in front of the mirror he had once tried to see where they all went. It reminded him of those medical textbooks with the cross sections of people, all their inner workings; their endocrine systems, circulatory systems, nervous systems.  
  
He took a swig from the bottle at his side. He coughed almost before the glass had left his lips, the kick like a small burrowing mole on fire wiggling down his throat. He felt like he was having a small seizure, his hands and legs and fingers and toes twitching as black rolled across his vision. Pressure seemed to lump up behind his plate, throbbing into his temporal lobes. The drink continued to burrow, slipping down into his belly where it curled up and smouldered.  
  
Mmmmm, that hit the spot.  
  
He shook the blur from his head as he took the hat from his head and tried to place it gingerly on his bedpost.  
  
He missed. But he didn't notice. He couldn't see. That was mainly because he was finding it very difficult to stay in the present.  
  
Collapsing face down onto the thick carpet he was vaguely aware of a pain that wasn't in his head or the feeling of his gut accelerating towards his feet at the same time as trying to leap out of his mouth. It was getting too complicated, this living business.  
  
Images flashed before him. The faces of the guilty, tried in the great court that was Jake Bullet's, Cybernautics. Theft from vehicles, Grand Theft Auto, hijacking, all were punishable by death now. Damn it, even the holograms had cars now. The giant reactors from before the madness had come online again some time back, nobody understood why. They tapped off what they could from something they didn't understand. Basically it ended up with a load of bloody holograms now running around. Not that he had anything against the dead.  
  
The face of Ryan Carl Fredrikson popped up in his head. He almost puked. It was one of his first assignments and the guy had almost escaped. He almost hadn't finished speaking out his sentence before the guy wrestled out of George's grip. He didn't think, he just fired. The vision of a man's face collapsing as a bullet ripped a messy path through his head was something he didn't want to think about.  
  
But he couldn't help it. He did everything he could to forget. There wasn't an underground drugs lab that didn't know him, he threatened to execute them all in the name of the state if they didn't give him what he wanted. He had tried it all. None helped. The closest was the one that knocked him out for about 4 days. He developed an amazing tolerance for it when he tried it next time though. He still remembered every second of that ordeal. Just like he remembered everything else.  
  
It started when he came online. It came in bits, that first he could only feel. It took a few hours before he could feel his whole body. Then they gave him his hearing. The most painful was his vision. A life in the dark shattered by the blinding light. Even with his eyes closed he never slept, the angry red of everything seared into his head.  
  
Everything after that he remembered.  
  
Apparently he had died. That had surprised him, especially when they were expecting him to remember. His body was his own, rewired and reconstructed so that he could move and feel. He had to learn to walk again, learn to eat, learn to kill. It was amazing how quickly it all came back to him. His brain was already hot-wired to learn it all, it had all been instinctive. It was just a matter of learning again.  
  
Since then he had basically pootled about as an officer in Cybernautics. It involved lots of rooting out enemies of the state as every member of the police department did and of course, traffic control.  
  
This foul liquid seemed to be doing the trick of addling his neural functioning. He could tell by the way his heat vision kept going on and off and the fact he couldn't stop giggling.  
  
It didn't stop him remembering though. Tears leaked from his eyes, a dull yellow as they hit the carpet in front of his face, fading to the background blue as he giggled, Ryan's face splitting as the bullet tore its way though. 


	3. History

The time of madness was centuries old. Generations had passed since the council had established peace. Sure, there was still a great deal of unrest outside the borders of the areas under the council's jurisdiction. But nobody wanted that area anyway. A vast wasteland, it was said. The area was the domain of the outcasts, tribes of the unwanted people who resisted the Council's laws and chose to live in banditry and squalor. There were no laws, no rules and no hope out there. People would kill you for the clothes on your back. If they didn't suck your blood. There was rumours of other nations, the Council ruled the world, there were no others alive apart from people within the State, the world was filled with vast fields of green with wild fowl and game leaping everywhere, the earth was a cratered mess like the cities they lived in now, there were permanent storms that boiled red in the skies only to unleash fiery death upon the people underneath, green, choking fog patrolled around the borders of the land killing all that strayed. For every person you asked or every book you read or every map you had seen the world was a different place outside. Just as there were variations in every interpretation of the past, so too were the interpretations of the present. Only you mattered, let each person deal with their own. It was said that it was now an offence to even speak of the outside. Most curious children would be told that the State is all there is, to do otherwise could bring unwanted attention. What schools there were would teach the same, if you were true to the State then it didn't matter. Nobody needed to deal with the outside. Nobody.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
Billy Doyle ran along the beaten dirt path in the municipal park. He laughed as he ran, the air whistling as it eddied in his ears and the satisfying thump his trainers made as the dust scurried away in clouds beneath his feet thrilled him. His arms flailing, he felt a bit faint as his little heart hammered in his body like a muscled ping pong ball in a can shaken by a demented toddler. He could only barely hear the huffing and puffing of Sebastian behind him. He stole a quick look back and he saw Sebastian's face contorted like he had mustard smeared on the roof of his mouth, his eyes squinting in determination, his little knees almost up to his waist as he tried with all his soul to get to that which was his goal, the centre of his focus. It would give him glory untold; bards would compose odes of his triumph as the heavens would open up to let angels fill the earth with their chorus of praise upon the young hero.  
  
'Hah, I win again Sebastian.'  
  
Billy said this as his hand reached out and slapped the bark of the aging sycamore tree, spinning around to beam his triumph as Sebastian stumbled to a halt a few metres short.  
  
'Face it Sebastian, I'm a whole two and five eighths years older than you, you can't hope to beat me.'  
  
Billy panted as he held his knees, taking huge lungfuls of air to recover from the mad rush of strength leaving his body. Sebastian fell onto his front and rolled over, gasping for breath, his face pink with effort. Billy recovered quickly and started to jump on the spot and stretch as his mother walked up with a grin, the lead rolled up in her hand as Amadeus pranced by her side. Amadeus caught sight of Sebastian lying spent and barked, rushing forward to lick his face causing the boy to only splutter his protests. Billy ran to his mother and hugged her.  
  
'You boys been racing again?' she said, tousling Billy's longish hair. 'You should really let poor Sebastian have a chance, you're his big brother. He can't keep up if you're two years older than him.'  
  
'Two and five eighths years older Mummy.'  
  
She laughed and tousled his hair again, helping Sebastian up to his feet. She dusted him down and wiped off where Amadeus had drooled on him and kissed him on the forehead.  
  
'My poor, poor boy. Don't worry, there's always next time.'  
  
His mother's words fell on deaf ears. Sebastian couldn't focus because of the tears in his eyes, the bitter taste of defeat heavy in his mouth. His brother had once again run him into the ground and though his legs ached and his lungs were raw he had once again failed. He knew that this wasn't the last time. He had run his best race and yet Billy had effortlessly turned his best efforts to ash that now filled his mouth, making him feel sick to the base of his gut.  
  
Billy started skipping ahead, 'Come on Sebastian, we'll see if you can beat me in the monkey bars.' He started to run again as the corner turned to reveal the playground but Sebastian felt no joy as it came into view. He had been defeated once more and he hated it every single time.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
In retrospect it was to be expected. Two half-brothers, raised more or less all their lives in the same house would naturally compete for their parent's affections. It was only a matter of time before the older Billy would want to follow in his step-father's footsteps and be an officer. Sebastian would choose the same. Their education naturally lent itself to near worship of the government and what it stood for and so naturally they would both choose to join CGI, the most famous and elite of the law enforcement arms of the State. Throughout their lives they would compete and jostle for attention and praise. Brothers so alike and yet they looked so different. Billy had his biological father's severe blonde hair and fair skin. Sebastian was dark like his father. They shared the same dark intense eyes that their mother had used to win the hearts of first Billy's father; a mechanic, followed by Sebastian's father; advisor to the Vice Section- Commander of CGI's riot control branch.  
  
James Powell had repaired mainly government vehicles when he fell electrically in love with Billy's mother. Sarah Rickman worked in a bar that he occasionally went to after work, a seedy dive where the clientele were mainly soldiers, transporters and the odd person who used to go just to stare at Sarah and sigh into their beers. She was a heart breaker of the old class, the kind that enjoys a gentleman's company and any gifts they may give but would never stray into immorality. The kind of girl that would let you down in such a way that you couldn't object but you never enjoyed it. Her father owned the bar and many a burly trucker would weep onto his little shoulder as he comforted them after his daughter told them that she didn't feel that she was ready for the kind of commitment they were looking for. James fell horribly, cripplingly in love with her when he first saw her, stuttering his order at the bar. Her father rolled his eyes and pitied the poor fool.  
  
What followed was not as people expected. James regularly slipped hastily scribbled love notes to Sarah as she went about her daily business of smiling at old beau's and waiting at tables. She read them all and smiled, never keeping them but appreciating the gesture none the less. Life for James became horribly complicated. He became wildly jealous of any man who even looked at her with desire resulting in him spending most of his time insane with rage until he went home to spend sleepless nights attacking his pillows.  
  
The real turning point came when he saw someone having a whispered conversation with his heart's desire. The first thing he did was fantasise about smashing his face inside out with a wrench. As he watched he took a half crushed carnation from his inside coat pocket and lay it reverently on her tray. She smiled and thanked him before returning to her post behind the bar and subtly dropping the near-dead flower into a waiting bin. He was elated she hadn't kept it but realised that he needed to give her a token of his own love. But what? More sleepless nights were spent trying to work out what to get, how he could amass the money it would probably cost and how to give it to her. It all came to the happy conclusion of him slipping her a note one day when she served him at the bar wrapped about an aluminium bracelet. The metal was heavily worked, sculpted into sinuous organic curves, little copper flowers hanging precariously off the silvery metal; the result of 4 days work during his breaks in the garage from scraps of metal lying around in the workshop. It was a great deal too wide as he had used his own wrist to get the right shape and the flowers fell off if you moved your hand too quickly but it was a work of love. The next night he went in there it was proudly wedged on the fleshy part of her lower arm, just above the wrist.  
  
And so it began, the mechanic who tortured metal into trinkets to gain the attention of a pretty girl began to see the girl more often. The bracelet started a conversation, a necklace of copper and polished steel earned a dinner, a ring crafted from scraps of jewellery melted in a pot above a bunsen burner in the workshop and inlaid with copper swirls earned her marriage. Eight months after he gave her the bracelet he pledged his vows to love and honour her always as she did to him.  
  
After a year there was born to them a child with a shock of whitish hair like a miniature physicist. For a few magical months their lives were perfect. They moved to a newly developed area in a tiny house that they fully intended to make into the perfect dream home that they had always talked about living in. Billy grew and started to burble, the mumbling and incoherent noises he made somehow making him more loved by all. Life was wonderful for them all.  
  
The day started off like any other. James awoke next to his beautiful wife; her eyes heavy with lack of sleep from waking up to tend to Billy. He knew his own must be as bad. They all three stumbled downstairs and prepared for the day while still only being slightly awake, Billy was toddling about and occasionally needed to be swept up when he was about to fall on his little pudgy face. James kissed his wife on the cheek as he left the house, ruffling Billy's hair on the way past. He was late for work but that hardly mattered as business was slow and it was just a few cars that needed tuning up that he needed to attend to. Sarah blew him a kiss as he walked out of the door and went back to feeding Billy orangey gruel on a small spoon.  
  
That evening Sarah put Billy to bed. The day had been reasonable, nothing unusual. James hadn't returned from work but that happened sometimes. He would get bogged down in dealing with a troublesome engine and spend hours taking it apart and cleaning all of it. It was when she woke up to deal with Billy that she noticed the bed cold and empty beside her. It was the early hours of the morning and still he hadn't come home. It was then she panicked.  
  
Tending to Billy she took him with her as she went first to the garage in which he worked followed by anywhere he could conceivably have gone to. She couldn't find him anywhere. Weeping she walked into her father's bar as dawn rose, her infant son balanced on her hip and grizzling. Her father took her in and sent some people to look for her missing husband.  
  
Sarah was inconsolable. A woman alone could hardly survive living on what little the State had to offer, especially one as untrained as her. Coupled with the burden of little Billy there was little she could do. As days past with no news of James that turned to weeks hopes that he may come back lessened.  
  
In this world people disappeared. It was a fact of life. Your existence was filled with a piety to the state because of what they had created from out of the ashes of the ancient. The state was all. They were salvation. The beginning and the end. The alpha and the omega. Questioning it was unthinkable. If someone went missing it was meant to be. It was for the good of all. The state had a reason to do it and so it was done, end of discussion.  
  
James Powell became another name that only existed in rumours and in the few belongings that were left behind. The customary month rolled by and all of value was taken by the state, apologies given to the widow and the garage allocated to the next person who could prove themselves worthy of owning it.  
  
With nowhere else to go Sarah lived with her father again, tending to the bar as she had done before she had met James. Things were as they were save the truckers were more protective of the girl and the boy waddled around the bar occasionally, providing impromptu entertainment for the clientele.  
  
Just under a year after James had gone Sarah met Major Todd Doyle. He was the tall, dark and handsome kind of man that women have fantasised about since the dawn of time. Todd was an officer of the law; he had power and prestige. The moment he saw Sarah waiting tables at a seedy bar he had come to investigate he knew he fell deep, just as James had a few years before. He completed his assignment, invited the tired but still vividly beautiful lady with him to a restaurant. At first she was reluctant but eventually she gave in to her father's cajoling, her own loneliness and the pressure of Billy's increasing needs as he started to grow. She accepted.  
  
The courtship lasted only a few months before they married. Todd worshipped the ground Sarah walked on. Although Sarah missed James she began to be happy again with Todd, his thoughtfulness and the way he interacted with her son made him all the better. Billy was treated by Todd as his own son. The boy who looked nothing like him was a wonderful child, so inquisitive and beautiful. It was only a matter of time before Sebastian was born to the couple, a child of their union who shared no genes with a missing mechanic. Their precious angel.  
  
The boys were treated well. The best education available was given to them. As Todd was promoted the family's housing and allowance was improved. Todd zipped up the ziggurat of command, his leadership qualities and determination a credit to his department. It wasn't long before he was leading his own division and soon afterwards he transferred to CGI itself. Meanwhile his boys had established themselves as remarkable in the academy, Sebastian as methodical and efficient and Billy as a brilliant and innovative thinker. Billy was a risk taker and was possessed with a confidence and glamour that attracted great respect from all around him. Sebastian was a good person. And that was it.  
  
They both graduated with great honour, both boys receiving immediate offers of a place within various offices of State. Sebastian took up a place in the same enforcement branch as his father had started in, an underfunded but vital part of the daily running of State. Billy was snapped up immediately by CGI.  
  
With news of their son's success a celebration was called for. Nobody noticed that Sebastian wasn't part of the festivities. Curled up in a ball on his bed he wept bitter tears of jealousy as the bass thump of music and dancing feet drifted up into his room.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
Who would have thought that such a good child should stray? Sebastian had always been reliable, dependable. The stable one of the family. He worked his way up the ranks in the time honoured way of perseverance, knuckling under, giving his job his all and the old policy of dead men's shoes. Fatalities were common even in his department. His transfer to CGI was after their examination of his flawless service record and outstanding technical competence in the myriad of entrance tests. He continued up the ranks even further than his father had and gained the position of Section Chief itself. He was a great officer, his textbook knowledge of tactics backed up by years of service and an unshakeable faith in the chain of command and the power of the state.  
  
If only his brother could have been like him.  
  
Billy had been a bright star in the department. He was in one of the most front-line and influential divisions, the Office of Truth. His athletic and intellectual abilities at the academy had ear-marked him for such a prestigious position. After further training in tactics, detective work and some of the less palatable skills an investigative officer would need he was deemed ready. His training took well and his first mission went fantastically, his performance outstripping expectations.  
  
The Office of Truth was a sub-branch of CGI absolutely committed to the preservation of democracy at all costs. It was the main counter espionage force and all who served within its ranks swore sacred oaths on their lives and that of their families to protect the council and all it stood for.  
  
An anti-government militant group known as the Libertarians had been developing and had support from grass root organisations; unions of workers and even police were said to be indoctrinated. They had been building a power base for around 3 and a half years when Billy swore his oath. After a lot of careful investigative work so as not to arouse suspicion their headquarters was found in an industrial district, hidden within the offices of a group of welders who had had many government contracts. After claiming responsibility of a bombing that had killed a cybernautic officer it was decided that the time for investigation was over. The young and ambitious Billy begged for the chance to prove his mettle to his senior officer who eventually accepted. With a unit of half a dozen Guardians of Truth he went out into the night to shut down operations at the welding plant.  
  
It took until the next afternoon for the flames to die down to a level that the fire department could handle. The corpses recovered were barely recognisable although it was obvious gunshots had wounded many of them. None of the revolutionary leaders had died in the blaze; they had been seized, bundled into a van and driven to the centre of the local shopping area where they had been kicked out and executed in the street before the evening shoppers. Their bloodstained corpses stayed where they lay for days, any passersby that paid their respects were arrested and questioned by the Office's troops. The sympathisers and supporters of the Libertarians identified during the investigations were seized and questioned, each new name coming out from beneath the electrodes and knives of the questioners brought more to the basements beneath the CGI buildings.  
  
In a scant 2 weeks the Libertarians were completely eradicated. Every lead was ruthlessly investigated, the trails of names and contacts going right up to the elected themselves. In total Officer Doyle was responsible for the purging of 2 of the elected, 16 members of various law enforcement organisations and 49 members of the underground militant group itself. Each death had a book of evidence gleaned from investigation, interrogation and confession. Each lead was chased up with exacting precision. Officer Doyle was immediately promoted and awarded.  
  
His star soon lost its lustre. Billy wasn't promoted above Captain. His fall from grace came from his subsequent missions; crackdowns on subversive groups were performed slowly and inefficiently, the rebels using the slow reaction of the authorities to make good their escape. Officer Doyle stopped leading his men personally, giving over command to junior officers who were often unready for positions of command, men died trying to capture particularly well-armed militant groups. It was no surprise when Captain Doyle's resignation landed on the desk of his senior officer. The man shook his head in dismay at the wastage of such talent and accepted.  
  
Billy's fall from grace was complete, his discharge from the Office of Truth stopping any law enforcement job from being within reach. Using what little information on emergency trauma aid he knew he eventually found work as an apprentice to a medic. When Sebastian heard the news he felt as if he had achieved the greatest triumph that it was possible to achieve.  
  
The angels sang their praises for him that day.  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
Duane hadn't been able to keep up. His grades had slipped, his usually high standards unrecognisable to him now. His academic abilities had rotted like so many carrots left at the back of a cupboard in a plastic bag. He couldn't concentrate anymore, the facts pinging off his ugly head instead of sinking in like they used to. Nothing he tried could recover it. He hadn't slept in days, he had tried to cram work he could have done in hours normally over the period of 3 nights and he thought he understood even less than what he had begun with, losing the ability to even remember how to make instant coffee. He had missed days, oversleeping because of how long it took him to settle at night.  
  
This was the State. There was no room for slackers. He had lost his grip on things and so barely a week after his official written warning he was forcibly removed from the premises of the university when he had gone back to appeal against his dismissal.  
  
His parents were less than impressed. After having lived rent free with them for years they forced him into the world in an effort to get him to meet it for the first time. Picking up his bright pink lunchbox and a day- glo carpet bag stuffed with enough nylon and polyester to cause a minor electrical storm he checked in to the Salvation Army hostel.  
  
Duane barely noticed. He felt drugged, anaesthetised to a reality that didn't want him. Even his fall from relative respectability barely made him feel anything at all. The sobs of his mother, the yells of his father, the tutts of his professors, the sniggers of his peers, the open hostility of those that he had once labelled as friends. He felt none of it. It was unreal, it was unfair and it wasn't right. It couldn't have happened, not to him.  
  
He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling of the room he had in the hostel. The tears in the surface exposed the naked beams beneath caused by people ripping sticky tape off posters. The wounds were vivid against the pale green paper, laid in an effort to cover up the inadequacies of what was essentially the roof. He was trying to work out why he cared. It was just a ceiling. He heard the tread of footsteps creaking on the old and rickety planks outside his room, the nails of the boards screaming their protest at the boards. He heard a groan and a creak of old bones as the figure bent down. The figure straightened and walked away leaving a choir of awful carpentry baying at it.  
  
Duane waited until he could be bothered to roll over so he faced the door. As soon as his eyes rested on the letter he leapt from where he sat and snatched it up. Still in his string vest and yellow nylon boxer shorts he knelt reverently as he picked up the envelope and carefully opened it. As soon as he saw the letterhead he was panting. As he read the contents he started to shake, tears flowing freely down his face.  
  
"On behalf of Leisure World International we are pleased to inform you that an appointment within your chosen game has become available."  
  
Stowing the letter carefully back into the envelope he wept tears of joy. His salvation was upon him. 


End file.
